I had three kilometres to go and all I wanted to do was sit on my couch and have a beer.
But, I convinced myself I could finish the measly mileage.
Keep going, I told myself.
My legs were dead, my stomach in knots and the road kicked back hard with every foot on pavement, accelerating me closer to my goal of completing a half-marathon.
Three kilometres. Keep going, keep moving.
I was almost done — or so I thought.
“Four kilometres,” she yelled, directing us, cheering loudly and completely unaware she had shattered all of my focus, dreams and sanity.
Four kilometres?
Four?!
It was a slight 1,000-metre miscalculation on my part and a major buzzkill, but I eventually crossed the finish line that day.
The soul-crushing cheerleader survived my wrath, too.
I didn’t dwell over the kilometre in the end, either, because I was done.
Instead, I flopped down on the grass, took off my shoes and socks — ahhh — and headed for the pancake line.
I ran 22 kilometres, which translated into as many as 22 pancakes in my mind, and I gobbled down my food faster than you can say, “Aunt Jemima.”
It was my first event of its kind and I was proud of the feat.
I was so proud, in fact, I felt I deserved a reward for all of my hard work, more than my heaping plate of syrupy deliciousness.
I decided I had earned a complete break from exercise.
That was three months ago.
Now, 13 weeks, eight pounds and a faint memory of crossing the finish line later, I blame running a half-marathon for my current state of being out of shape.
I was an everyday Forest Gump for a few months there.
Then, I finished the run and I achieved my goal.
Yay, me!
I was done.
I could take the rest of the summer off as far as I was concerned.
Which I did.
And, now it’s looking like I’m taking fall off, too.
Possibly winter.
I am living out my dad’s favourite joking excuse for skipping out on fitness: “If you’re in good enough shape to run five miles, you’re in good enough shape not to.”
I haven’t.
And, now I can’t.
Every time I try to get into a new exercise routine post-woohoo-I-did-a-half-marathon, I think about how much work it was: The training, the rest, the organization, the motivation.
All of that healthy stuff for way too long.
I can’t motivate myself to put on pants most nights, let alone yoga pants that make me feel like I’m stuffing the Michelin man into a pair of Lululemons.
At this point, I wouldn’t even believe I had finished the run if it weren’t for the photographic evidence.
I’ve tried going back to the gym.
But, I ultimately end up on the lazy bike — you know, that one on which you can sit back and lounge, much like a couch. I don’t exactly get a good sweat on.
The whole home-workout thing hasn’t worked, either.
I’m worried my neighbour will catch a glimpse of me doing burpees in my living room and call 911 because of all the flailing and dry heaving.
I should probably just fork out the cash for a personal trainer, someone to really yell at me and hold me accountable.
But then, I’d much rather spend my hard-earned cash on, well, anything else.
I’m not so worried about how my clothes fit. After all, I love wearing sweats and boyfriend sweaters.
I am slightly concerned, however, of the slippery slope.
I haven’t quite figured out how to motivate myself and prevent the obvious health risks that come with being on your way to becoming 3,000 pounds.
In hindsight, maybe I should have kept at least a mild exercise routine going after running that half-marathon.
At some point, I’ll have to sit down on my couch with a beer and figure it all out.
Jessica Wallace is a reporter for KTW. Email her here. Follow her on Twitter here.
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